Solo - Jack Higgins [19]
Mikali stared out of the window into the night and saw the fellagha turning from the burning truck at Kasfa, drifting towards him in slow motion as he waited, stubbornly refusing to die, the red beret crushed against his wounds.
He had beaten Death then at his own game four times over. He felt again the same breathless excitement. The affair at the Bois de Meudon had been the same, he knew that now. A debt for his grandfather, yes, but afterwards...
He raised his hands. 'Give me a piano score, any concerto you care to name and with these, I can give you perfection.'
'And more,' Deville said softly. 'Much more. I think you know this, my friend.'
The breath went out of Mikali in a long sigh. 'And who exactly would you have in mind in the future?'
'Does that matter?'
Mikali smiled slightly. 'Not really.'
'Good - but to start, I'll give you what my Jewish friends would call a mitzvah. A good deed for which I except nothing in return. Something for you. Your touring schedule. Is it likely to take you to Berlin during the first week of November?'
'I can name my own dates in Berlin. I have an open invitation there always.'
'Good. General Stephanakis will be visiting the city on the first of November for three days. He was, if you're interested, Vassilikos's direct superior. I would have thought you might have more than a passing interest in him. But for the moment, I think we'd better do something about friend Jarrot here.'
'What would you suggest?'
'A little more of this Napoleon down him for a start. A pity to waste good cognac, but there it is.' He pulled the unconscious Jarrot's head back by the hair and forced neck of the bottle between his teeth. He glanced over his shoulder. 'I do hope you can manage me a ticket for Friday's performance. I'd hate to miss it.'
*
At five-thirty the following morning it was still raining heavily at first light when the night patrolman for the area stopped by the slipway which ran into the Seine opposite Rue de Gagny.
His cape was soaked and he was thoroughly miserable as he paused under a chestnut tree to light a cigarette. As the mist lifted a little from the river, he saw something down there in the water at the end of the slipway.
As he approached, he saw that it was the back of a Citroen truck, the front end of which was under the surface. He waded down into the freezing water, took a deep breath, reached for the door handle and pulled it open. He surfaced with Claude Jarrot in his arms.
At the inquest which took place a week later, the medical evidence indicated a level of alcohol in the blood three times in excess of that permitted for vehicle drivers. The coroner's verdict was simple. Death by accident.
The concert on Friday was everything that could be hoped and the Minister for the Interior himself was present at the reception with the Greek Ambassador, closeted together in a corner. As the press of well-wishers slackened around Mikali, Deville approached.
'Glad you could come,' Mikali said as they shook hands.
'My dear chap, I wouldn't have missed it. You were brilliant - quite brilliant.'
Mikali looked around the crowded room, filled in the main by some of the most fashionable and important people in Paris.
'Strange how much apart I suddenly feel from all this.'
'Alone in the crowd?'
'I suppose so.'
'I've felt like that for something like twenty-five years. The great game. Walking the knife edge of danger. Never certain just how long you can get away with it. Waiting for the final day. The knock on the door.' Deville smiled. 'It has its own excitement.'
'Like being on a constant high?' Mikali said. 'You think it will come, this final day of yours?'
'Probably when I least expect it and for the most stupid and trivial of reasons.'
Mikali said, 'Don't go away. I must have a word with the Minister of the Interior. I'll see you later.'
'Of course.'
The Minister was saying to the Greek Ambassador, 'Naturally, we are doing everything in our power to wipe out this - this blot on French honour, but to be frank with you, Ambassador, this